Resistance (extended)
by latessitrice
Summary: He might think humanity is defeated, but he's about to learn just how stubborn the people of the realm can be. Extended version.


**Here be'eth the belated, extended version of my one-shot Resistance, now with added backstory!**

**I consider everything contained within to be entirely consensual, but if dubcon is a serious trigger there's some discussion and hints in the worldbuilding that probably means this story isn't for you.**

* * *

**Resistance**

It was said that when the King first ascended the throne, the people of Earth resisted him.

The Worshipful denied such claims. Loki was a god: a kind and generous god who'd taken pity on mankind and come to free them from the bonds of liberty. He'd created paradise on Earth and the people had welcomed him. He'd protected them from the ravages of the Chitauri and the wrath of Thanos, and all had fallen gratefully to worship at his feet. Those who said otherwise were liars, descendants of the cruel, corrupt leaders he'd deposed, seeking to chain the people again.

Reina knew the truth. All Widows knew the truth.

"You're lucky you're not his type," the Chamber Mistress said, inspecting her uniform. It was, as per instruction, a spotless white. "We've had nothing but trouble replacing the last handmaiden and I don't want to do that again any time soon. You look smart enough, though, and that plain face ought to pass him by. But you better prove yourself to me, girl, or it'll be back to the kitchens with you."

"I won't disappoint you," she promised. "I work hard and—"

"Oh, I know, your references spoke for themselves. It's the only reason I took you on. That and your looks. But if you displease the King in any way, I'll be the one who suffers for it. None of the Worshipful liked the idea of taking on a Lower to work in the throne room."

Reina cast her eyes downwards, aiming for demure. "And I thank you for this privilege."

In the eyes of the Worshipful she'd secured a promising position, something unheard of for one of her station. As a Lower, she was descended from those who'd fought against the King, her great-grandparents agents for the old government. When the resistance fell, all agents had been put to death or fled into hiding, to be forever pursued by the Worshipful, their families brought to the palace as slaves. Her status as Lower should have kept her in menial drudgery but their desperation to recruit had led the Chamber Mistress to her, renowned for being the most hardworking unwed girl among the staff.

Unbeknown to them, this was the piece of luck the Widows had been waiting on for years.

"Now, you must remember not to make eye contact and you may only rise when permitted."

Reina nodded blithely at the Chamber Mistress's reminder. She'd had plentiful training and knew the consequences for breaking the rules. For her, it wasn't just about keeping a better station—the fate of their entire mission rested on her shoulders. She'd learned from birth to be quiet and well-mannered, to obey orders and submit to those in charge, and there was no way she was going to let her sisters down. "I understand, Mistress."

"Well then. In you go."

Unexpected panic welled inside. She'd only ever entered the throne room during her training, when it was empty. She'd never faced the King before, never been relied upon to do something so important, and what if she _did_ let them down? But her feet kept her moving forward, through the small door at the corner of the room, behind the vast gold expanse of the throne itself. Head bowed, she tiptoed to the little stool against the back wall that would be hers and sank onto it.

The first thing that struck her was the King's voice. She'd heard it on broadcasts before, when all the Lowers would crowd around the little radio they were permitted for such events. In person, though, it filled the hall, cold and rich. She could feel it right through her skin and bones; the kind of voice she'd like to wrap herself up in, if it weren't for the terrible words it was responsible for.

"They disobeyed my direct orders," he said. "Have them stripped of their belongings and sent to join the Lowers."

The sycophants around the room nodded and scribbled down their instructions. Another Worshipful stepped forward, walking in that half-stoop they all did around the King, dropping to his knees before the throne. She suppressed a shudder at the thought of being in a room with so many Worshipful. They'd kill her as soon as look at her if they knew what she was.

"Your Majesty, I bring great news," the man began, staring hard at where the King's torso must be. From this angle the high sides of the throne blocked her view so she couldn't see, but even the Worshipful weren't allowed to make eye contact with the King. "This past day, we discovered bones in a cave in the Andes Mountains. Our tests have proven these bones belonged to the Man of Fury."

A pale hand moved into view, long fingers wrapping around the armrest of the throne. "Then you may cross him from the list, and all your resources may finally be pooled on searching for the one remaining evader."

The Worshipful frowned a little, expecting more praise at the success, but hid it quickly. "I am confident we will now discover what happened to the traitor Romanoff, my king."

She stopped breathing at the name, waiting for any reaction among the other people in the hall. For some reason she half-expected all eyes to turn to her. "_Why don't you just ask _her?" But the Worshipful merely nodded, scuttling backwards to his original position, disgruntled at the complete lack of reward from the King. She was watching him so intently she almost missed the hand gesture from the King: a curl of the finger in her direction.

The handmaiden on the other side caught her eye with a shake of her head and she shot off her stool, scrambling to the King's side to await his instructions, crouching beside the throne.

"Wine," he stated, and she gave one nod. He glanced down at her and paused, then called over the Chamber Mistress, who waited at the side of the hall overseeing everything. "Is she new?"

"Yes, Your Majesty."

He examined her, reaching under her chin to tip her face up, and finally she saw all of him. Fine, pale features; thin lips and slicked-back hair of a perfect black; startling eyes, and a body swathed in leather. The realm's insignia, the golden horns, rested atop his head, and a viridian cape spilled over the throne. She was careful not to meet those sharp eyes, noticing instead the graceful line of his neck, the width of his shoulders. He was not so large as she'd thought he would be.

For a horrific, sickening moment, she believed he could see through the ruse: he knew who she was and why she was really here. But instead, his gaze travelled on, dismissing her, and she was allowed to retreat to safety. He'd been disappointed in her appearance, and for one second, as his eyes passed over her, she'd wanted him to find her worthy, even if he was rumored to despise blondes. She berated herself for such foolishness and thanked the heavens he hadn't decided to censure her for the delay in service.

Under the stern watch of the Chamber Mistress, she retreated to the kitchens to fetch the wine, the memory of his stare lingering on her skin.

Being tupped by the King improved your marriage prospects exponentially. The Worshipful fell over themselves to marry their sons to those girls fortunate enough to be bedded him. His predilection was for the pretty handmaidens who attended him, but given his temper and his…unusual tastes, only those who were desperate to improve their family's situation would agree to take the role.

She'd believed his infamous temper was the source of much of the danger in her task, but now she realised it was the King himself. Despite his fierce appearance, there was a cold beauty to him, just as there was with his voice. Perhaps not all those who agreed to share his bed did so merely for the benefits they'd gain.

Returning to the kitchen's warmth felt like coming home. "Goblet of wine, Fran," she called out, and the other girl came running.

"Shit, don't you look smart? Better stay away from the rest of us, we'll get you covered in grease." She rushed off to fetch the drink.

This was the beauty of the handmaiden position. She might be above now, but she still mixed with those below. She could be eyes and ears in the throne room, yet remain in contact with the other Widows.

"You weren't up there long," Sal, the cook, commented, stirring at a pot. "Doubt there's much interesting gossip yet."

She moved closer to Sal on the pretence of checking the flavour of the soup. "They found Fury," she whispered. "Now they only have to search for Romanoff."

Sal paused but didn't seem too perturbed by the news. "It's fine, girl. They've got no leads. There's nothing left of her to find, anyway, but thanks for the warning."

Fran returned with the goblet and Reina exited the familiar bustle of the kitchen, returning to the sterile formalities of her new world.

* * *

She discovered days passed slowly when you were waiting for someone to give you instructions. There'd always been something to do in the kitchens or cleaning duties to take on, but here it was a test of her training to remain mentally alert. She didn't slip up again, proving her worth to the Chamber Mistress, and slowly learned the names of the prominent Worshipful who haunted the throne room regularly. The King spent his days dispensing orders, which she found were not all to do with punishing those who angered him. His mental agility meant he was a proficient administrator; it was how he ensured everyone was fed despite the scarce resources. He solved problems quickly and decisively, the same way he'd used the Tesseract to heal the climate problems which had once threatened the survival of everyone in the realm.

Reina missed the comfort of time with her sisters. The Widows had brought her up after her mother died birthing her. They'd given her education, strength, a family, and the truth. They were the disciples of the original Widow, Natasha Romanoff, who'd lost her husband and everyone she cared about in the resistance. She'd shed her identity, becoming one of the Lower, and passed her skills onto those who still wished to defeat Loki. The only way to free mankind from Loki's tyranny was by completing a bridge they'd been building for years. A bridge through the stars: the Bifrost, the path to Loki's homeworld. They'd been promised help, but none could be provided if the Bifrost remained in ruins.

It all rested on their ability to retrieve the Tesseract, but countless plans had been concocted and abandoned, and even more attempted and failed. The King kept the Tesseract in his chambers, in a cage constructed from lethal magics and traps. Once, he'd carried it on his person, until too many plots had tried to take it from him. He'd once slaughtered every person in the throne room because one assassin had tried to steal it: to show his strength, to show how little he trusted, and ultimately, to make a point. Then the cage was built, and even the maids who cleaned his chambers had been killed in accidents when they came too close. The Widow's spies had determined he turned the traps off when he was in his chambers, because to keep the magic burning constantly drained him, but magic was not of Midgard. None could wield it or diffuse it. Until the Widows could find a way of gaining the cube, Loki was secure on his throne.

When there was no work to do, the King retired to his vast library, where the handmaidens were required to follow. Reina itched to look at the books herself, but that would reveal she knew how to read. Instead, she watched him bury himself in words, taking notes or relaxing by the fireplace with his nose buried in the pages.

Though he only spoke to her to issue orders, it was clear to her that he was desperately lonely. How could he not be? He trusted no one, saw none of them as his equal, and it had been that way for over a hundred years. She found it strange to feel sympathy for a man she saw as her enemy. Not that it would stop her doing what she needed to.

Romanoff had passed his story onto the Widows as part of their training: his abandonment and adoption as a child, then his betrayal of the family who raised him. Taking the throne hadn't brought the acceptance he'd been seeking, only awed fear from his subjects and the eternal enmity of those who'd once loved him. Romanoff's view had been that Loki was propelled by inner fragility, but it only made him more dangerous. His actions against those who opposed him attested to that.

Reina couldn't exactly seek companionship with the other handmaiden. The girl wasn't Worshipful herself, but she aspired to be, from some middling family with hopes of marrying her off to the right person. Her name was Tira and she had a sweetness to her face that made Reina envious. She hadn't seen a day's drudgery in her life, and it showed in her soft hands and unblemished skin. At first Reina felt kinship with her, for alerting her during that first morning, but the feeling soon dissipated. Tira had a horrendous habit of giggling and attempting to catch the King's attention in all things, and her contempt for Reina was thick as another layer of clothing. She didn't want to associate with a Lower, not when it might jeopardise her own marriage chances.

She also brought friends to the palace, showing them the library when the king was absent. Her friends tended to be gigglers too and Tira preened in front of them, revelling in the prestige her role brought. The Chamber Mistress wasn't concerned. All she wanted were their names, so she had candidates for Tira's replacement.

"Has he called for you yet?" one friend asked in a mock-whisper. Reina had no idea why they pretended to whisper—she was the only other person present and they ignored her outright.

"Obviously not, silly, or I wouldn't still be here," Tira replied. "It shouldn't be too long, though. The Chamber Mistress seems to think it will be very soon."

"And you have options for after?

"Of course! I already know of three Worshipful with marriageable sons who've become acquainted with my father lately." And then came more of that bloody giggling.

Sal told her not to hold the girls' nature against them. "That's their world. They grow up knowing their whole future rests on finding the man with the highest social standing. Any need for brains is drummed right out of them. Wasn't always like that." It didn't help Reina keep her calm when she heard the third near-identical conversation.

"I wonder what it's like…you know, when he summons you," asked one timid friend.

"I shudder to think, " said Tira. "I've spoken to a few former handmaidens and they say you just have to endure it."

Their soft instincts didn't alert them to his approach, but Reina felt him nearby even if she couldn't see him. He was a prickle between her shoulderblades and the faintest creak of leather behind the shelves. She was fed up of their foolish prattle and yearning to shut them up.

"Is that really anyway to speak of the King?" she said, and Tira blanched. There was no way to pretend Reina didn't exist when she addressed her directly.

"It's none of your business, _Lower_," replied the friend.

"Listening to her prattle on and speak of the King with such distaste is my business. Isn't it obvious when he takes one of us to bed he wants intimacy?"

Tira paused, then spat back. "As if you have any chance of being invited to his bed."

To Reina's surprise, that stung, but she masked it. "That isn't why I'm here. I serve the King, not myself. It seems to me you are here only for what you can gain."

Tira didn't respond to her directly, only to her friend. "Come, we're leaving. I need to speak to the Chamber Mistress."

Reina didn't fear Tira's threat; she'd done nothing wrong. Besides, she knew Loki had heard every word.

The next day, Tira was gone. She'd been bedded over night and Reina watched her depart the palace on shaky legs, news of the girl's engagement already echoing through the corridors. She wasn't replaced, though the Chamber Mistress couldn't explain why, and instead the King came to rely on Reina alone.

* * *

Her solitary place on the chair behind the throne had the Worshipful watching her with even keener eyes, though they never spoke to her. Normally as a Lower any and all would feel free to issue orders to her, but she was Loki's servant alone for the moment. It didn't stop the curious glances or the lingering, contemplative stares. It took all her training not to shudder against some of those looks; she knew what passed through their minds. If the King had no interest in her, then she was of no interest for their sons, but Lowers had always been fair sport for the lecherous ones among them.

So it was she found herself passing down a quiet passageway after a tedious feast, the palace halls still echoing with the last of the music while most made their way home. The King had already retired and that left Reina free to retreat to her rooms too.

She knew immediately she was being tailed. Her follower lacked quietness of movement—or perhaps he just lacked the inclination to care. She refused to speed up or give any indication she'd noticed.

"You girl," the man said, and this time she picked up her pace. "Are you ignoring me? Stop or I'll have you flogged."

Reina halted. She'd never been flogged in her life—a few lashes with a switch and the occasional wooden spoon as a child, but not a full punishment. He could order it, make up some story about a misdemeanour that would earn her it. Better to face whatever he wanted then be taken out of the mission with a shredded back.

He crept up behind her, then moved around so she could see his face. Skinner. She fought back a wince. He was old enough to be her grandfather but still had a reputation for strength. He'd been a hunter in his younger days, leading the pursuit of the missing agents, and she knew he was the one in charge of the search for Romanoff. Tonight, it was the alcohol making him unsteady and unstealthy.

"Now, if you keep quiet and do as you're told, we can all be in bed soon enough. You're not the King's type so he won't mind me having a little fiddle—"

He reached for her and she ducked away, then doubled over as pain burst up her jaw. He'd backhanded her and she hadn't seen it coming. "I said do as you're told." He slipped a hand inside his doublet, retrieving a blade that glinted under the torchlight. "Or we won't even wait for the flogging."

This time when he lurched forward she was waiting for him. She knocked his fist away but he kept a tight grip on the blade and lunged for her with the other hand. Normally she'd have pulled him in close, using his body weight against him, but she was weaponless and she couldn't end up at the mercy of his. Instead she kicked out, trying to sweep his legs from under him so she could run.

He was too agile, even drunk. He stayed stubbornly upright and feinted towards her. She recognised the feint and stayed away from the punch he threw, backing away. "A fighter?" Realisation crept over his face. "I know what you are, girl. Question is, where are you going to go now?"

She glanced around. He was right—he had her cornered, caught with her back to the wall and the corridor beyond him. "What am I?" she asked. She needed a distraction, and she needed clarification. Because if he knew, if really knew—

"You're a Widow," he said. "Isn't that what you call yourselves? Filthy Lowers who think they can destroy the natural order of things." She caught his punch this time, using his own momentum to push him backwards, but she still had too little space. "Bet I make you squeal all about where Romanoff went." The blade flashed again, but she sent it spinning out of his hand which a sharp jab to his wrist. Now he was weaponless too, but it didn't deter him. He grabbed for her throat, slamming her up against the wall.

The world went white and she let instinct take over, grappling, getting his hands away from her neck. She took another blow to the stomach, but she breathed through it. He thought he was winning. Bracing herself against the wall, she grabbed his arm, spinning herself up so she gripped his head between her thighs, twisting to bring him to the ground—

And his neck cracked.

* * *

She waited for days for the axe to fall, for the Worshipful to come and drag her away, but they never came. The Widows were too adept at covering their tracks. Skinner was found at the bottom of a staircase, still reeking of alcohol. When the autopsy results were delivered to Loki, she even thought he was grimly amused.

"Fell down the stairs and broke his neck, did he? Drunken old fool. Have his son replace him."

The incident was never mentioned again, not in her earshot, and the other Widows didn't seem too concerned.

"Got what was coming to him," said Fran during one of Reina's kitchen visits. "Dirty bugger. He's not the first to meet a messy end when his hands went wandering."

"But he _knew_."

"Of course they know. Some of them have been chasing us a long time. They don't have the evidence to take it to the King, and we make sure they're in their graves before they can tell."

Reina still struggled to relax so she channelled her anxiety into her work. She knew Loki well, now. She knew when he would request wine and be ready waiting with it without having to dash to the kitchens. When he was in a good mood he'd eat lighter foods than if he'd had a busy day, and she'd have the library lit, warmed and scented ready for him to retire to when she could tell he was eager to. His attitude towards her changed, slowly, and even the Chamber Mistress was delighted that she wasn't reaping the effects of mistakes made like she used to.

Gradually, the way Loki treated Reina morphed into something akin to the way some of the Lowers acted around the stray animals who hung around the kitchens: contempt masking fondness. He saw her as below him—far below him, subhuman even—but he tolerated her presence without the raw disdain he'd shown other girls. Rather than sitting silently out of his sight while in the library, he bade her kneel at his feet, not unlike a pet dog.

"You are the best who has ever served me," he once said. "You anticipate my needs before I do. Such a good girl."

She could use this new relationship, given time. He might see fit to extend her usefulness to his chambers, without the restraints he favored for his bedmates, and she'd finally be within reach of the Tesseract without all the traps.

She was becoming used to being a pet, then, but not to being petted. His hand in her hair while she knelt beside him came as a shock, one dangerous enough to snap her head up. She only just averted her eyes in time to avoid the fatal mistake of meeting his, staring resolutely at his chin.

"Is something the matter?" he asked.

"No," she whispered.

"Go on," he said when she caught her tongue.

"I believed you did not approve of light hair."

His snicker was a surprise. "My derision for blondes does not extend to you. Yours is an acceptable shade."

She nodded, and his fingers twisted harder, pulling her face higher. She was too slow to look away this time, and the look in his eyes told her everything had changed. Hunger, the kind he wore when he gazed at the other girls, and he made no move to hide it from her. She'd be attending his bedchamber, certainly, but not in the way she'd anticipated.

* * *

"The King has asked for you."

She had little control over her body's reaction to the Chamber Mistress' announcement. It was hard to distinguish if the adrenaline bursting through her bloodstream was powered by fear or want; most likely some potent combination of both. The same could be said for the clench of her belly, the weakness in her knees, the tingle of her skin. The fear made her weak, yet it was perfectly natural when dealing with Loki. The desire was far more dangerous. It clouded her decisions, interfered with the instinctual need to bring him to his knees. Desire was a forbidden drug that she needed urgently weaning of.

She'd been expecting the call for days. Showing the King kindness, despite it going against everything she'd been raised to believe, had put her on a path she couldn't turn from. Catching his attention was never her intention. After all, the Widows had promised when she took the position of handmaiden that she did not fit his fussy tastes. It should have kept her away from his bed; instead, everything she'd done since taking the role had inched her closer to it.

"When?"

"Tonight. I'll collect you when it's time." The Mistress departed, leaving her alone in her small chamber. She supposed she was meant to prepare, though she'd been given no instructions how. She was no blushing maiden, but the King was known for his…unusual predilections. And afterward, she'd be a handmaid no more. That would be the end of her usefulness to the Widows. She owed them everything—she couldn't let them down now.

She retrieved her cloak, and felt along the wall for the loose panel, lifting it free so she could slip into the space behind it. The passages extended throughout the palace, placed there by builders who begrudged the treatment of their families. The Worshipful were wrong if they thought the resistance had been crushed decades ago. It lingered in the hearts of even ordinary people, who showed it in quiet ways. It allowed her to slip down to the kitchens unwatched.

At this time of day the functional areas of the palace were calmer, while the slaves rested between busy mealtimes. Only Sal could be found at one of the stoves. She took one look at her visitor and went to fetch the other Widows.

Their reactions were easy to predict: shock, concern, calculating thoughtfulness. They really hadn't expected her to be any more than a pair of watchful eyes in the throne room, allowing them to weave other plans and maneuver the right pieces into position. But she would be in Loki's own chambers, the closest any of them had come to the Tesseract in their lives.

"We must try to take it," Fran said. "Then Thor's army can cross the bridge and we'll be free of Loki at last."

"He won't allow me near the cube," Reina protested, "and you know I can't take him on physically."

"Perhaps you don't have to," said one of the oldest Widows. "Men lose their minds when they are thinking with what's below. He'll be no different."

"I have something that can help," Sal offered. "A poison. You give it to him when he's distracted and it'll knock him out cold for a few hours. A few hours is all we need."

She returned to her chamber with the vial of poison and a needle concealed in a hidden pocket of her dress. There was nowhere else she could stash it, not if she were going to end up nude.

Then she waited.

* * *

The Mistress collected her after the evening meal, leading her through the main thoroughfares of the palace. All eyes watched her go, understanding where she was heading, speculating at what would become of her afterward. She didn't fit the profile of the King's usual plaything; would one of the Worshipful really claim her for their son? Was a slave a fit wife for a freeman's son, even if the King had found her suitable for bedding?

It didn't matter what they thought. She would either succeed tonight, or she would die in the attempt. There would be no in-between.

The Mistress rapped on the door of his quarters and departed.

"Enter."

Taking deep, steadying breaths, she stepped inside. She couldn't see the King, and crept forward to the center of the room, drinking in her surroundings. She'd expected opulence, and he didn't disappoint. The ceiling soared overhead, walls and coving painted in gilt patterns. The furniture was sparse, the room given over to overstuffed bookcases and a few plump armchairs. Instead of electric lighting, the King used candlelight, which cast a golden aura over everything. A cyan glow illuminated a glass case in one corner—the Tesseract in its cradle. She forced her gaze to track past it, as if she didn't notice it or understand its significance. It was easy to find another focal point. The bed dominated the room: so different to the pallet she'd spent her life sleeping on. Half the kitchen staff could have comfortably slept in it, and she was already imagining how the silk and furs would feel under skin.

She felt him before she heard him, a flicker of warning down her spine. "Welcome," he murmured, the word ruffling her hair, he stood so close behind her. The carpet rustled as he moved away, examining her. "This evening you may speak to me freely," he said, "and you may meet my eyes."

She nodded her understanding. He finished circling and came to stand before her. It was a shock to see him in so little clothing: usually he came garbed in layers of black leather, shining metal armor overlaying them. She'd seen him without his horned helm before, those many hours spent in the library, but this was the first time without all that armor. The cloth of his garments clung to the muscles below. Despite the way her mind was viewing the hours ahead as something to be endured, her body was in complete disagreement. This was to be savored.

"You are unaware of myself watching you, studying you. But tonight you will see how attentive I can be."

Panic sparked through her. If he'd watched her too closely, he'd have discovered things it would be disastrous for him to know. Reason calmed her: if he knew, she wouldn't be in his bedchamber, she'd be on a spike outside the palace. He meant he'd been watching her as she went about her duties, and that she'd known all along.

"Do you understand why you're here?"

"I believe so." He tipped her head back, palms either side of her face. They were colder than she expected, a welcome chill on her flushed cheeks. His scent was as cold as the rest of him, the freshness of iced mint spiced with something darker. His face filled her vision, lips looking plumper than she remembered, and as he spoke his breath fanned across her mouth.

"I'm going to fuck you." She dropped her gaze away from his and he chuckled. "So modest, though I doubt I'm your first. There is no need to play the coquette here. Your quickening pulse, your flushed cheeks, the longing in your eyes—they all betray your desire. You may try to deny it, but I will bed you this night, and you will take me—all of me—eagerly." He dipped his head to lightly brush lip to lip and she inhaled softly. The barest pressure, a stroke of gossamer, and already she was weak. "You see," he cooed at her response. Then he kissed her properly.

She'd expected many things, but kisses were not one of them. He was forceful, taking what he wanted, but he wasn't rough, and he demonstrated all the skill his long life had bestowed. He took her lips between his, teeth scraping gently when she hesitated, thumbs stroking at her jaw to coax her into more. The taste of him was even sharper than his scent. Her hands came to rest on his chest, unbidden, feeling the thunder of his heart below, the stutter of his breath. She didn't understand how he could seem unruffled when his body betrayed so much. She fought and failed to calm the storm inside her, pulling him deeper into the kiss.

When her knees failed her, he pulled away, a self-satisfied smile gracing his lips. He held her at arms' length, easily keeping her there. Immortal, endlessly stronger than a human—she hoped Sal's poison worked on him as it was meant to.

"This is how it will be," he said, the usual polish of his voice undercut by a rasp. "I will take you slowly at first, allowing your mortal form to adjust to me. Then, once I deem you ready, you will come to know the true depth of my passion."

She clung to him as he moved them from the middle of the chamber, her back hitting the wall beside the bed. She bit her lip to stifle a whimper as his fingers found her waist, curling possessively while he covered her mouth again. This was a promise of things to come—soft, then rough, always demanding. One of his knees kept her legs pinned apart, and as she moved against him in the kiss, she ground herself down. His fingers tightened, controlling the twist of her hips so she just couldn't get the pressure she wanted. She mewled in frustration, and he smiled against her mouth. He knew what she wanted. She knew what he wanted. But she would not, could not, beg.

His lips pulled free of hers, instead attacking her throat, her collarbone, the soft part of her neck below her ear. She arched, letting him in closer, knowing he would leave marks, allowing her nails to sink into the cloth on his back. Like for like.

One hand slid over her hip, ghosting down her thigh until it reached her knee. He tugged her leg up, wrapped his fingers around her ankle so he could slip her shoe off. His hand reversed its path, up, up, up, the bare skin of her leg, sliding the hem of her skirt higher until only an inch of thigh remained covered. He dropped her leg but kept the cloth trapped in place, then he repeated the whole tantalizing process on the other side. This time he kept her leg aloft, wrapping it around his waist, her other foot straining on tiptoe in the lush carpet to keep her balanced. His chilled hands forced her skirt up the final inch, then another, until the dress stayed bunched around her torso.

He ripped her undergarments away, tossing them aside to where her shoes rested, and she hissed at the sting. With her leg hitched as it was, she was open to him, and he wasted no time in skimming his fingers down to the wet skin between. She hated herself for the whimper that escaped; he teased once more, barely-there fingerfalls that she writhed into.

"I love the little noises you make as you attempt to keep yourself silent. Your hesitance will not last long."

He fell to his knees, letting the leg she held high drop to his shoulder. It put his mouth in a very particular place, his hands gripping her thighs tightly so she couldn't move. There was no teasing, this time. He covered her, precisely where she wanted him, and he was right about her attempts to keep quiet. She forgot about silence entirely as his expert mouth moved against her, lips and teeth and tongue combining in a way she'd never known they could. She'd experienced pleasure, mostly at her own hand, but this was another thing entirely. She hissed and swore and hummed; he seemed to know what she wanted before she did.

He peeled his lips away to kiss and nip at the skin of her inner thigh, and she keened her dissatisfaction. She'd been building to something, the edge of bliss, and the further away his mouth moved, the farther it slipped from her.

"Tell me, little one, tell me what you want."

"I want—I want you—" she panted.

"Say my name."

"_Loki_." He returned his mouth to where she needed him. "Ah! _Loki._" She was suddenly too sensitive, but her hands couldn't push him away, and then—

The world fragmented, splintering apart into shards of pleasure, leaving her quaking. Even as it reformed around her, it pulsed in time with the rhythm between her legs, the pounding of her heartbeat, the shaky rasp of her breath.

Loki was no longer on his knees before her, and she blinked, staring in confusion at where he stood across the room from her. He was in full armor again, his head tilted to one side as he regarded her. She tried to reach for him but couldn't pull her hand away from the wall. One glance told her she was shackled in place.

She opened her mouth to ask how, to ask why, but stopped. The knowledge in his eyes gave it away. This had all been a ruse; he'd probably known who she was all along. She was only thankful her skirt had fallen to cover her while she was in this position—and that the Tesseract was gone from its cradle.

She'd allowed herself to be trapped, too tempted by the promise of his mouth between her thighs. It should have been the other way around; if she'd taken him in her mouth, she could easily have nicked him with the needle while her hands were hidden from his sight. But so long as the Tesseract was secured, it was okay. She'd distracted Loki long enough for Fran to sneak out from the passages and take it.

His gaze followed hers to the empty case, and she watched the realization creep across his face. Any flush she'd coaxed into his skin drained away, and he turned to her with flexing fingers. Any moment now they'd find her throat.

Then it was gone. All the anger, washed away, replaced with contemplative amusement.

"Well played," he said. "No worry—I shall retrieve it before you do too much damage. It's rare that I am outmaneuvered. Here I thought I had your scheme all figured out."

"How did you know?"

"I witnessed you kill a man with your thighs. I must admit, that was a pleasant surprise. Most intriguing." She shut her eyes. He'd seen her kill the Skinner. "It was also Agent Romanoff's signature move. Did you know that? I don't have all the answers but I can piece the rest together myself: she came here to the palace when the resistance was crushed, hiding in plain sight, and trained some of you. You've kept that training up, a little network of spies among my own slaves."

She stopped resisting the chains. She'd played her part; made her sacrifice. "Kill me. I'll never give you their names."

"Kill you? I think not. Not when you played such a very hurtful trick on me. Besides, I have no need for names or plans. I know what you intend to do. I know who you work with. No, first I think I will go seek out your friends and inspire terror in their loved ones. I will do everything I must to ensure the bridge remains broken—death, ruin, whatever violence inspires them to compliance best. Then, when I return here with the Tesseract safely secured, I'll begin the process of breaking you."

"I'm not afraid of torture."

"Who mentioned torture? You don't fear pain, and I appreciate that. Indeed, we'll have plenty of fun with that. No, I will take from you what you value the most: your own mind. You crave me already but it's ingrained in you to fight against me. I won't break you with pain, my dear, but with pleasure." He'd stepped close again, his breath fanning against her cheek as he spoke. He stroked one finger down the side of her torso, goosebumps erupting in his wake. "You will come to beg for this. Your body will betray your mind and you will fall on your knees in helpless submission, craving the lightest touch of my fingers. The very sound of my approaching footsteps will make you ache in anticipation."

"No." She held her ground, returning the amusement of his stare with hatred. She wouldn't show him fear. She would never succumb, no matter what he did.

"Oh, yes." He smiled and retreated from her. "Even if I fail in retrieving the Tesseract and lose my throne, I can ensure you I will return for you. Whichever forsaken corner of the universe I flee to, you will be with me, my willing slave. So enjoy your respite. We have much work to do when I return."

With the bright cape flaring behind him, he was gone, leaving her alone with the anticipation and fear of what was to come.

* * *

**Thanks, once again to Rhi, Twiggy and Lindsey for their prodding, questioning and catching of grammar errors I should know better than to make. **


End file.
